


Flicker

by AngriestPotato



Category: The Arcana (Visual Novel)
Genre: F/M, Female Apprentice (The Arcana), Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Nightmares, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Recovered Memories, the apprentice gets her memories back, they're not pretty
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-09
Updated: 2020-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:34:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23078674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AngriestPotato/pseuds/AngriestPotato
Summary: The apprentice gets back the memories that were supposed to be lost forever.Some of those are bad, some of those are good, some of those are of the one person she loved the most leaving her behind.
Relationships: Apprentice/Asra (The Arcana)
Kudos: 17





	Flicker

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's descriptions of the apprentice having nightmares about her own death in this one so heads up for that, also nightmares about burning and offhand mentions of Julian and Asra's relationship.

Getting along with Julian is easy, the easiest thing in the world. You understand it in a mostly instinctual sense; there something that joins you together, a crack in your souls through which light escapes, light that probably should stay inside you, in fact. It’s not really strange that he was the one Asra turned to when you weren’t around, _alive_. Not a mystery at all.

He’s a story teller, it’s in his bones, makes him slam his palms over Nadia’s table for emphasis. Louder than you, grander than you, gesticulating at the entire garden but possessed by the same base impulse to make sense of the world by building it into a narrative. That’s probably why you lean towards him when he makes an offhand comment about figs being the first sign of a good night, like red eyes are the first sign of the plague. You want the story to be right, you want it to be perfect, so you grab ahold of his arm and laugh and say:

“Fever came first, high enough to make you forget what you were doing five minutes into a task, you probably didn’t notice until the red eyes because you’re always running yourself ragged.”

“That is terribly true,” Julian concedes, settles his hand over yours just so he can pull it close and kiss your fingertips, “and so very cruel of you, my dear magician.”

You throw your head back laughing and an apologetic look in Asra’s direction when you realize he’s staring intently from his place to your right. He knows Julian as well as you do –better, than you–, he knows his flirting doesn’t mean a thing beyond considering you a friend. He should, you think.

Asra smiles, pretends to wipe your fingers on his scarf before he places his own kiss on them, pressing his lips against your wrist first and shoulder too, for good measure; and you forget the searching look that flashed across his face for a second.

Looking back on it, you should notice it isn’t the kiss that worries him.

—

_‘Of course, what else could you expect from a nobody orphan from the docks, huh? It’s no shock I’m a…’_

The words are suddenly there, the only thing in the dark; you don’t know who says them, but you give chase, stumbling blindly along. They hurt like freezing rain on the skin; everything hurts, now that you think about it. Blinking feels like burning, you can’t breathe, there’s blood in your mouth.

You open your eyes, shaking, somehow aware too of the sweat on your skin. A strange contradiction of sensations that your brain is too overheated to process. Someone wearing a mask grants you another blanket, tucks the fabric between you and the bare mattress, one more in a row of deathbeds.

The solid ceramic is a familiar sight, but that doesn’t make it a welcome one, pure white that erases the features of the wearer from nose to chin. The scent of paperbark and lavender rises from the silver coils on either side of the face; in the time you’ve been here they’ve looked like tusks, horns, spear points, depending on the whims of your fever.

_‘Should you…?’_

_‘It’s almost over, what’s the harm in comfort?’_

The voices distort, as if they’ve been stretched out, ran over by the surprising sounds of the market. You’re in the middle of the street, clutching a head of garlic –only the palace can afford paperbark, so the rumor says it must work better, but garlic is good enough antibiotic for your customers, good enough for you– and a part of you is convinced that you’re waiting for someone.

You try to remember anything beyond the way you ache for him. Maybe you just wish you were waiting for him. You don’t know who it is, but your heart does; it looks over the faces of Vesuvia for him, it wants him to see you, the things that happened while he was gone.

It burns too, the sick satisfaction of imagining the expression on his face if he knew, his lovely face, the sour twist of a mouth you love –loved, once–. You don’t feel bad about it, he would’ve left you anyway, if he had stuck around for long enough to notice your sclera turning red.

_‘How do you like me now, Asra?’_

You don’t realize you’re speaking out loud until you hear your own voice, small in the alleyway, dying alone in this fucking city.

_‘Could you love me like this?’_

You laugh and your hand loses strength before it can turn into sobbing. The garlic rolls away, the air is too hot on your skin, your lips are dry and you can’t even cry here, not when the tears turn into steam as soon as they leave your eyes.

It’s the panic of flames on your skin that wakes you, jolts you into full consciousness in the middle of the night, in the shop, with Asra haphazardly cuddled against a throw pillow by your side.

“Nightmare?” Faust lifts her head from your navel, her smart eyes sizing you up as you nod, “Asra?”

“It’s okay,” you whisper, because you can still hear Asra’s voice in your mind, the venom in it _‘what else could you expect from a nobody orphan from the docks, huh?’_ , “we can deal with a little nightmare just the two of us, right?”

“Partners in crime!”

Faust chirps, and it’s not like you want to keep this a secret from Asra, you just… _wish_ it was a nightmare, that any of them were, these dreams you’ve been having; these memories you weren’t supposed to get back.

If they were nightmares you wouldn’t have to try and figure out how to bring it up with Asra, wouldn’t have to find the means to say ‘the last thing I remember of you is how you walked away from me’; and you wouldn’t have to fight off the strangest sort of loneliness, even with him close enough to touch in the bed you share.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want Asra to say sorry.
> 
> Quick notes: most paperbark trees belong to the melaleuca genus, where they get tea tree oil from, which with lavender is an antibiotic/antibacterial. So are silver and garlic.
> 
> The masks of the Lazareth guards are based on Lucio's Capricorn™ aesthetic, because it seemed cool ig


End file.
